


one more miracle

by evenafterallthistime



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Loss, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenafterallthistime/pseuds/evenafterallthistime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You machine.” The words ring in his ears, the guilt and self-loathing heavy in his heart. The flat is too quiet. His hand develops that tremor again. He gets his gun.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	one more miracle

**Author's Note:**

> A very big thank you to _praisethemofftiss_ of Tumblr and AO3 for answering my questions, ensuring there wouldn't be any mistakes in this story. You're the best!

 

Sherlock jumps and the horror pierces through John as he lunges forward, nearly falling over himself in the sudden odd motion of putting one foot in front of the other. The mobile phone drops from his hand, abandoned.

He screams his only friend’s name, it wrenched from his throat.

Sherlock collides hard with the ground and John hears the crunching sound of shattered bones. He refuses to believe.

The crimson blood spreads along the pavement, the pool growing larger and larger. John forces himself to move, breaking his way through the small crowd, reaching out, fingers clasping around Sherlock’s wrist. The steady beat of a pulse is absent.

_“This is my note.”_

He lets go and Sherlock’s hand falls limply back to the ground, still warm. But not for long.

John is a doctor, but he knows, as a chill comes over him, his veins like ice, that this is irreparable.

 

\--

 

He is in agony, but the tears don’t come.

 

\--

 

In the wake of his death, Sherlock loses all of his credibility. Sally Donovan smirks, proud that she had been right all along. Anderson’s face mirrors hers. Lestrade looks weary, his mouth perpetually set in a grim line. Mycroft’s face is tight, his eyes as emotionless as ever, but more often than not they flicker away from John’s, no longer able to keep his gaze.

His blog is overrun with comments despite John no longer recounting solved cases. Most people flat-out refuse to believe that Sherlock’s talent was not genuine. Those comments show support for John, a continued admiration for Sherlock. However, the comments don’t comfort him as much as they should, because they are not the ones that stand out.

The ones that do stand out are cruel, overflowing with disgust and anger at how Sherlock had invented Moriarty and orchestrated the crimes. They are the ones that believe it easily.

_‘Those poor people, having to go through all they did just to serve a man’s ego.’_

_‘I knew it was too good to be true. How else could he know so much about the cases to begin with?’_

_‘What a monster.’_

Some of the comments even accuse John of being involved in all of it as well, believing he was Sherlock’s partner in crime, dutifully recording their ‘findings’ and ‘revelations’ _._

 _‘I for one am unconvinced,’_ One in particular says, _‘of Dr. Watson’s ignorance.’_

John is unconvinced also. Sherlock was not a fraud. Nothing will ever make him believe otherwise.

He never updates the blog, and he never checks it again.

 

\--

 

Months pass.

Food never has any flavor anymore and no matter how many hours he sleeps, he is so exhausted all he can do is sit and stare at the floor, careful not to look at the empty chair opposite him.

Strangely enough, John is not haunted by nightmares.

But what he dreads are not the nights, but the days.

_“You machine.”_

The words ring in his ears, the guilt and self-loathing heavy in his heart. The flat is too quiet. His hand develops that tremor again.

He gets his gun.

 

\--

 

He leaves the gun on the chair across from his ( _his_ chair) and just looks at it. He loses track of time.

Eventually, ever so slowly, he reaches out and picks it up. He pulls the bullet out of his pocket, just to check, one last time. Just one.

It’s all he needs.

His left hand shakes again and he clenches it into a fist, the bullet digging into his flesh, cold.

‘ _Well, that would be **quite** a mess to behold.’_

The amused voice resounds so loudly that John has to remember that _he_ only resides in his head now.

John puts the gun on the floor and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He holds his head in his hands.

"What are you doing?" He asks himself, revolted. "What are you _doing_?"

He kicks the gun away, it skidding across the floor. He hurls the bullet through the air; it bounces off the wall across from him.

He imagines Sherlock would nod, approval in his eyes.

 

\--

 

“The stuff you wanted to say, you didn’t say it,” His therapist says quietly. “Say it now.”

_Sherlock Holmes was the most brilliant, amazing man I had ever known and I had no one until I met him and he was my best friend my only friend and I never told him how much he meant to me and how he actually made me want to live again and I loved him---_

“No,” He shakes his head, clasping his hands together. They are both trembling now, and he is so tired. “Sorry, I can’t.”

 

\--

 

He goes back to working at the medical clinic again, not because he actually needs the money, but because he feels that if he stares at that empty chair in the flat one more time he will go insane.

His patients stare at him oddly, pitying, and he pretends not to notice. He just goes through the motions, getting up for work, eating, arriving back at the flat late at night to pass out.

It is routine. And John knows routine. There is something comforting about it, he supposes. It will do.

Then he meets Mary.

 

\--

 

“Dr. Mary Morstan,” She declares warmly, holding her hand out for him to shake.

Then she closes her eyes briefly, smiling. “Mary, I mean. You’re not a patient.”

There is something so endearingly modest about her.

He grasps her hand; her fingers are firm and soft around his. “Dr. John Watson. But you can call me John.”

She nods, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nice to meet you, John.”

There is no condescending pity in her green eyes. A genuine smile curls his mouth for the first time in nearly two years.

 

\--

 

He moves out of the flat.

 

\--

 

“One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me,” He pleads, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice but failing miserably. He can’t stare at the gravestone too long.

“Don’t be dead,” He chokes on the last word, terrified to even have to say it. “Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this.”

He puts his hand over his eyes and lets himself go for only a few seconds. No longer than that.

Then he straightens his shoulders, turns, and walks away, an ever-present ache in his chest.

 

\--

 

He knocks on Mary’s door and a moment later she opens it, grabbing ahold of his hand to pull him in.

She hugs him in greeting and he holds on. She’s been his only consolation these past few months.

“You went to see him?” She asks softly and he nods against her, letting his shoulders slump. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop feeling so tired.

She strokes his back, over the tense muscles there, and the tender gesture almost breaks him. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes deeply.

“It’s all right, John,” Mary whispers, sensing his pain, as she always does.

“I’m sorry,” He replies, his voice muffled by her sweater, ashamed. Sharing his sadness is something that’s always been foreign to John.

At this Mary pulls back, her eyes roaming over his face. She puts a hand up to his cheek and rests it there. He leans into the warmth of it.

“You don’t have to apologize,” She assures him, the sincerity clear in her voice. “He was your friend. You loved him.”

The ache eases slightly in his chest. He puts his hand over hers, pulling it away from his face and to his mouth, kissing it in gratitude, and he knows he is in love.

 

\--

 

They marry six months later.

 

\--

 

 “We can always keep trying, Mary,” He says, brushing her tears away with pads of his thumbs.

She brings her hands up to her eyes, rubbing against them. He moves his hands away.

“It’s been nearly a year, John,” She sighs, looking back at him. Her eyes are starting to well up again, he sees, and sadness stirs in him for he knows how much she’s always wanted a family. “Perhaps we should go see a fertility doctor.”

She sounds so defeated. He nods in agreement, pulling him to her. She rests her head against his shoulder. “Of course. Yeah. I’ll make an appointment.”

When she pulls away she nods, her eyebrows creased. He grins and puts a hand over her stomach.

“It _will_ happen.”

Her lips tug upward into a smile in return. She nods again and moves towards the kitchen counter, grabbing her purse.

“I’m going to go get Chinese for dinner.”

“The place close by?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to walk there. The fresh air will do me good.”

He touches her cheek, caressing it. “You want me to go with you?”

“No. I’ll be all right. I just…” She trails off.

 _Want to be alone for a while_.

He knows; he desires moments like that too.

He inclines his head in understanding, pulling his hand away. “Okay.”

She smiles, tugging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, turning away. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

 

\--

 

It’s only a few minutes later when he spots her wallet on the kitchen table.

“Damn,” He mutters, swiping it off the table, hurrying to the door.

But the moment he steps out the door he hears yelling, and somehow he _knows_ …

He runs.

The small crowd is gathered around a prone figure in the middle of the street. A bloodied white trainer peeks out in between them.

“Mary!” He cries, his voice strangled in his throat, shoving the people aside.

“She’s my wife! Let me through, she’s my wife!”

They give him room and he sees her, her body bent at an odd angle.

“The car just sped away!” Someone shouts, and another says, “Call the police!”

He drops to his knees beside her, the blood soaking through his trousers and _no, God no,_ he thinks, _please no, not again—_

He picks her up slightly, holding her to him. She’s barely conscious, her eyelids drooping, her hair thickly matted with blood, and he sees the collarbone protruding from her chest on one side, so, so white with all the red around her.

“Oh, Mary…” He whispers, horrorstruck, embracing her carefully.

She groans, her voice raspy. “John. It hurts.”

“I know,” He says, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I know. You’ll be all right.”

Her breathing is harsh then suddenly she goes so quiet, her head lolling against his chest, and he doesn’t bother feeling for a pulse this time around.

 

\--

 

He twists the wedding band around his finger, staring at her gravestone, a broken man.

“You were wonderful, Mary,” He breathes. “You were the only one who really understood about…”

He stops himself, still unable to say the name after all these years.

“We would have had lovely children,” He continues. “They would have looked like you, of course, because any kid that looks like me would be unfortunate.”

He laughs weakly. His eyes burn.

“I loved you, Mary. So much. I hope you knew that.”

He puts his hand over his mouth, his lips trembling.

“I’m sorry, John.”

He starts, jerking his head up, and there he is. The same dark hair, striking blue eyes, black overcoat. Like a ghost.

He staggers backward, the fury and despair warring in him, closing his hands into fists. “No. No, you don’t get to do this. Not now. You don’t…”

He falters, his voice cracking. Sherlock moves closer to him and there is no mistaking the concern on his face. The expression reserved for John.

He points at him, finger shaking. “All this time. After all this time you just show up.”

“I had to, John. If you’ll let me explain.”

He narrows his eyes; they brim with unbidden tears. “Why should I?”

“Because that’s what friends do.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Surely you’ve made other friends in all this time? Wouldn’t I be useless to you now?”

Sherlock approaches closer still, his eyes calculating yet soft. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there years ago. “I don’t have friends, John. I’ve just got one.”

And John finally breaks. He sobs, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Sherlock is so close now and John wraps his arms around him, clinging to him so he won’t fall.

Sherlock stiffens, hugging no doubt unfamiliar to him, John knows. After a moment, Sherlock returns the embrace, somewhat awkwardly.

“Four years, Sherlock,” John whimpers, his voice hoarse. “Four years I thought you were dead and Mary, _Mary_ …”

“I know,” Sherlock responds quietly. “But I’m back now, if you’ll have me.”

John closes his eyes, hearing the hope in Sherlock’s voice, detectable only by him. “Yes,” He sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yes, I will.”


End file.
